Tender Bits

Five to Eighty-Five

The way he played by himself pleased his Granny. She watched from her rocking chair and crocheting. Phrases such as ‘attention span’ and ‘self gratification’ were not in her small-town Southerner’s vocabulary. But she knew his concentration on coloring within the lines, on blending of colors to make new shades was special.

They were in Granny’s room, Stella Dallas leading her unbalanced married life on the radio. The Great Gildersleeve provided light contrast in those shared afternoons. A preposterous line now and then caught little Zane’s ear. He would giggle.

At five, Zane’s smarts extended to grasp his Granny’s need to nap. All that rocking made her sleepy every day. His chance.

“Can Buddy come over to play with me in the sandbox?”

That always worked.

Up from her chair, Pearl Reed would lean on the nearby windowsill and call in her weak voice to Mable Garner next door.

A tiny head popped into view as Mable, herself in need of a nap, consented. With a reminder to “be good,” she patted her boy on the head and sent him to see Zane.

Barefoot both, the boys plunked themselves in the sand and waited for radios to be switched off.

That was their signal. From gritty sandbox to the soft powder of dirt under Zane’s house was only a few crawls on hands and knees away. There, safe from view, they shed their clothes and sucked each other.

The practice – their discovery – tickled both. It was the most fun two little boys could have. No rules to follow like games taught by a parent or a Granny. Soft, wet tongues on soft boy parts – heaven!

When they tired of the fun, on went their underpants, and they ran to the garden in hopes to wash off the soil. Summer’s hot sun soon dried them as they ran around, playing tag in Zane’s back yard. Glee’s noises ended naps. Buddy and Zane were found in the sand box being good boys.

* * * *

Year two of their elementary schooling ended doubly. Classes were over. The Garners moved away. Zane missed his friend Buddy and their under-house trysts. The new family that moved in had infant boy twins in which seven-year old Zane had no interest. What was the talk of Center Street was the return from his time in the Army of twenty-four-year-old James “Jimmy” Hudson, whose mother lived across the street.

Jimmy had been in Africa. Far off, exotic Africa! He had black and white glossies of African women with naked, pendulous breasts which exceeded any in Zane’s experience looking through occasional issues of National Geographic. Neighborhood boys were welcomed to the Hudson’s garage where Jimmy showed them proudly and rubbed himself through khaki-colored pants.

Zane and his friends Lamar, from around the corner, and Willis, from three blocks away, looked and listened, and marveled at what bulged. They wondered.

Center Street ended four blocks away in a woods where there were swings, teeter-totters, and a couple of picnic tables beside a creek with tiny crawfish. Like a pied piper, Jimmy and his little troupe of neighborhood boys trekked to the ‘park” – with permission from two mothers and a granny – where Jimmy could tell them more and show them ‘some stuff.’

By following the Center Street creek from the park area as it twisted deep, they could reach a secluded area where a fallen tree lay in a small clearing few knew about. There, boys could lower their pants as Jimmy did and compare themselves to the man, and watch him pull on himself until globs of white flew in the air. Times were when Jimmy would pull at the boy’s parts until those places sprouted nascent erections. Most fascinating were Jimmy’s efforts to put himself in in Willis’ backside, the boy over the tree trunk – bent not unwillingly.

Willis had heard from his older brother about cornholing, who said it was “really good if you’re old enough.”

* * * *

Zane’s anatomical education was thwarted by the diagnosis of rheumatic fever, which put him briefly in a children’s hospital and, for four months in bed at home. Upjohn Pharmaceutical’s horrible-tasting tonic, Jeculin, was spooned into his mouth every day. If he regurgitated it, another spoon of it was forced in.

Zane did not attend the third year of his schooling. His friends did. At home, confined to bed rest and little exercise (“Your heart could burst.”), he cut out and played with paper dolls, drew pictures and modeled with plasticine. Mostly, he read…children’s books, comic books or whatever he could get his hands on. What occupied him most he leafed through a volume at a time was a grocery-store-marketed encyclopedia.

His mother bought one volume at a time as each appeared – Richard’s Topical Encyclopedia. Stretched her budget but kept the boy occupied during homebound school hours. He looked at all the pictures prior to reading articles on subjects such as artists whose names he knew from hearing about them on news broadcasts. Picasso. Dali. Rembrandt. Bosch. Rubens. Pollock. Da Vinci. Learning further, he read general articles on art periods. Lost himself to the Greeks (beautiful male statues); skipped the Middle Ages (bizarre); dove into the Renaissance (best artists ever); made it through Romanticism (without identifying with its effusions); shunned Impressionism (blurry); tired of art so, on Granny’s advice, turned to American history.

By his ninth year when he entered the third grade at school, Zane knew more than his teacher, could figure arithmetic in his head, and was impatient with his classmates’ slowness. Miss Cox (his mother’s friend with the name Genevieve) sent him to the art table. The following year, Miss Brewton (Grace Kelly pretty) did the same. Mrs. Lypes, his rotund teacher at the new middle school encouraged his art. He produced on huge sheets of newsprint wishy-washy watercolor paintings of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

People left him alone.

Subjected to the Standford-Binet Intelligence Quotient test, he was embarrassed to learn that his score was only 156. “I know way more than what they tested,” he complained. Zane’s mother inquired of Mrs. Lypes what the score meant. “Tell him it’s just fine and not to worry,” had been her answer before swearing Zane’s mother to secrecy. “It’s in the near-genius category.”

Officious Mrs. Buice and hatchet-faced Miss Tucker, Zane’s sixth and seventh grade teachers, indulged his self-propelled learning as far as possible within curricular guidelines. It was in the Spring of his seventh grade year that sex re-entered Zane’s consciousness.

His classmate Herb Lindsay had pubic hairs to show during recess on the athletic field. His four-inch erection was envied by the other boys. Zane thought back to Jimmy Hudson’s man-size and nightly investigated his personal bits. Why were they not developing? Something about cornholing surfaced – something buried behind all the learning of his past four years.

Perhaps…

Curious, Zane surveyed the soft stick of margarine on the kitchen table. He selected a round-handled ice cream scoop from a drawer and, after checking that Granny was napping, slicked it to insert in his backside. Found the best angle. Slipped it in. Felt his cocklet spring up hard.

Straightened upright, he discovered he had a tail. It tickled inside when he clumped tentatively into the living room, pants around his ankles. On noticing the threat that it might fall out, the boy pushed it back – which tickled a special spot even more, well, specially.

Fucking! Fucking was great.

After a wash-up, other utensils were introduced into his self-play – tapered candles being favored over kitchen equipment. They were so smooth and held their place when he twiddled himself to funny, fuzzy feelings. And…and, one day there were two hairs! Convinced by the result, Zane doubled his efforts…and soon noticed growth to his penis. Popping things in his anus aided masturbation which, in turn, prompted growth of hairs and inches.

A new boy at school, Tommy Rodman, of pretty face and gentle manner, turned out to live not far away. They palled up, Tommy also interested in art. In a few months, swayable Tommy posed bare-chested for Zane to sketch, let Zane show him a candle and speak of how it felt, lowered his pants as directed, took it right in with only spit on the end, joined Zane in jerking, and became his plaything. On the sly from adult observation.

For his twelfth birthday, Zane received a tent. Bitter disappointment. That is, until he thought of its potential for sex with Tommy – and handsome David Reynolds, from four blocks away, a dimpled, good natured, outdoor type. The three staked out Zane’s tent under the backyard pecan tree, David doing most of the work. They determined to spend the night in there, reading comics by flashlight and talking about nocturnal emissions.

Naked under their flannel pajamas there were more interesting things to study by flashlight – each other’s development. David might be interested in seeing how Tommy could take Zane, prompted Zane. Tommy didn’t mind, even said he liked it. As if on cue, he told David he ought to try it. David faced down and was skewered.

Damned by a sudden rain shower and a thunder clap, Zane’s fuck was unrooted. The tent leaked. Grabbing on their pajamas, the boys ran quickly, quietly into the house, and tiptoed to Zane’s bed. Parents were not awakened, that is until David’s resumed nakedness was thrust back into by Zane, Tommy watching, and a slat crashed from the bed frame with a loud report.

Light came on under parents’ door. Hysteria provided Tommy with his pajama top and Zane with his pajama bottom. David was left with the sheet pulled over him.

“What happened?”

Zane told of the rain and of how they’d just gotten inside and had plopped all at once on the bed.

“Well, go in the living room and pull out the sleeper sofa.”

With relief, the lucky boys never dared to try another sleepover. Tommy gave in to Zane through high school, then married his sweetheart the day after graduation and proceeded to sire four sons over the next years. Unfucked David went his own way after their Junior year, marrying a girl, leaving school, and getting a job.

* * * *

Years of college were an escape from his home town for Zane. There was bad news: Jimmy Hudson’s foolishness with the kid twins from across the street led to his arrest and confession to diddling all of Center Street’s boys over the years. A call came to Zane, who was deposed over the telephone. Opting to acknowledge Jimmy’s manual manipulations, Zane avoided having to interrupt classes for a trip to court. The prosecution succeeded in avoiding a trial by getting Jimmy committed to a State psychiatric center.

That put the kibosh on sex with others during Zane’s collegiate matriculation. As an art student, the talented young man was surrounded by arty types. The company of gays proved fun. He and friends played around with campy colloquialisms. To each other they were “Auntie” and “Mother” and “Sister” and “Queen.” They snickered over the stud behavior of “butch” male students, speculated about “blow jobs,” joked about a hapless friend who, in the dark, mistook a tube of peppermint toothpaste for one of Brylcreem and lost a trick to a case of flaming asshole.

* * * *

Hornier than ever to fuck, Zane took a big city job and learned how to pick up hustlers near the Civic Library and downtown Soldiers Monument. Negotiations in those days, he found out, were simple.

“You a cop?”

“No. Are you?”

“No. Do you turn over?”

“Might. What’s it worth to you?”

The situation was repeated as often as Zane’s finances allowed. In consequence, the young man’s circle of hustler acquaintances grew along with stories circulating of his cockly prowess. A bond with one tough, streetwise Donny Simms, led to great butt fucking.

Charlie Kirkland, whose lawn service utilized street kids by the day (and he, generally by night), told Zane, “Donny loves to get fucked but will never admit it. Claims to be straight – only sucks because he has to. It’s bullshit. But be careful. He’s dangerous. He’d soon as cut your liver out with a dull knife if you catch him thieving from you.”

The first time Zane laid eyes on Donny, he was leaning against the Library wall in a pair of red shorts and nothing else. They bargained for oral.

“I don’t do no back-door.”

Zane knew otherwise. Before taking him home, Donny needed a hamburger, fries, and a large coke. Two of each, it turned out.

“I ain’t ate all day.”

“Business slow?”

“I don’t go with just anybody. Some are creeps. You know the guy, Mr. Grooms he calls himself?”

“Nope. Why?”

With a belch, Donny said, “Acts all nice, then pulls out his belt when you’re all nekkid. I don’t go for that shit. Had enough from my old man. Grooms beat Joe Rutherford black and blue and didn’t pay him.”

“Joe. Let’s see, kinda muscular, isn’t he? From the Midwest?”

“Yeah, a real pussy. You wanna fuck, get Joe. Only I ain’t seen him around lately,” Donny wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Let’s go. You been good to me. I’ll be good to you.”

He was. Rolled right over with being asked. Took Zane’s dick like a pro. Nothing tender about Donny.

Light pink from no exposure to the Summer sun, Zane contrasted markedly with the hustler’s nearly all-over tan. The view he had of his bulbous, fully mature length sliding in and out of Donny with no protest sent his desires into high gear. Donny bounded back again and again to counter Zane’s spirited thrusts.

They shook the bed.

Donny fell asleep without a word. Did not move all night as Zane was aware, afraid to fall asleep himself. Finally, he managed to doze. Waking, he felt panicky for a moment until he saw that Donny was still where he had been – his ass as beguiling in dawn’s light as any Zane had ever plumbed.

Breakfast proceeded without awkwardness. The boy liked scrambled eggs, toast, strawberry jam and, surprisingly, sweet milk. “Y’want me to fix you up with Joe?” he offered.

Zane sputtered into his coffee. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

A raised eyebrow was Donny’s response.

“I want to see more of you.”

“Most guys don’t.”

“Want some more eggs?”

That cinched the deal. Donny took the money Zane proffered. He came back many times over the next months, never once causing a problem. Filched nothing. Always got fucked face down, occasionally twice overnight, but never expected pay for the second.

“It’s a freebie – for you, ’cause you’re nice.”

(Read here for another tale about Donny)

* * * *

Charlie, in his landscaper’s pickup truck, occasionally drove Zane on cruises. They would pick up boys by asking if they wanted to ride around. The are-you-a-cop routine opened discussions, sometimes leading to funny exchanges.

One attractive kid – Alan, he said his name was – quoted so exorbitant a price that Zane burst out, “I only want to rent it, not buy it.” Alan demanded to be let out on the spot. Offended.

Another pick-up, Robert, who was very good looking and whose whopper-cock Charlie had blown, spent the night with Zane. His bounteous butt played host to a splendid romp by enthused Zane. Welcomed back there, Robert acted funny after his fourth time, causing Zane’s warning lights to blink. While Robert was in the bathroom taking a shower, Zane went through his pockets – and discovered his personal American Express card.

Called and asked to come quickly, Charlie drove up in his pickup truck that morning to haul Robert away. Told him, “You can’t come back.” Robert listened guiltily in silence. At home, he got out. His mother, a slattern named Reba, popped from her tatty front screen door, “What’s going on?”

“Robert’s a thief. He took Zane’s credit card.”

“Stupid fool,” Reba slapped her big son as he entered the house. She strolled out to Charlie’s pickup, "Look, sorry about that. We needa Easter ham. Kin y’help us out?”

Charlie brought over a girlish little runaway, sixteen. A whiner when getting fucked, ‘she’ claimed it always hurt when her uncle did that to her. Queried, it came out that he had been doing that to ‘her’ since the age of twelve and liked it when told it hurt. So, “It hurts” became ‘her’ refrain. That was enough. Back ‘she’ went to the byways of life on the road.

The smiling Segura twins wanted money but were dull sex. They nixed their opportunity with Zane by saying flatly, “Can you hurry up.”

A Joseph something-or-other, possessor of a huge dick, liked it on his back, legs up. Loose inside from reformatory years, he never failed to implore Zane, “Don’t hurt me.”

On his back or front, Nelson sucked his thumb each while. “I could fuck him for hours as long as he could suck that thumb of his,” Zane told Charlie. “He doesn’t do a thing whether I’m slow, fast, or hard in him – just sucks his thumb.”

An acquaintance, Dawson Williams, liked to travel. He conned Zane into spending weekends in the Yucatan, ostensibly to see the pyramids. Dawson was a magnet for Mexican tricks. Loved their smooth torsos against which he favored ‘the Princeton rub,’ his flabby, bare, hairy chest rubbing theirs and achieving almost instantaneous relief. A few seconds only having passed, boys who wanted sex were not sure they had had it. Most turned then to Zane.

(Read my true story here)

Thus, multiple weekends and longer stays during holidays gave Zane’s ready cock a plethora of young holes belonging to Tito, Ricardo, Chiro, Eduardo, Roman, Paco, Efram, and a few Joses.

Such good times!

A Canadian gentleman suggested that ripe offerings were to be sampled in Malaysia. Given care not to flaunt, wonderful adventures with Asian flesh awaited. “They love big American dicks.”

Off went Zane. He fucked Malays, Chinese, and Malay-Chinese nearly all of whom wanted him to call them by their adopted Western-style names: Adrian, Tony, Paul, Terry, James, and Henry, who was a police officer. Two did not go by those type names, Heri and Budhy. Exotic Budhy, skin the color of weak tea, came from Medan in Sumatra – and was amenable to ‘anything.’ The only new experience he had at Zane’s hands was to be made to wear a long dildo when they went for meals.

Later, he wrote letters about it. And about being spanked, “None of my other daddies ever spanked me.”

Zane never got over Budhy’s ritual washings the before muezzin’s calls to prayer and his obeisances for prayer toward Mecca, then climbing back into bed for more of Zane’s lusty cock.

* * * *

Wild oats were strewn as flagrantly, as gleefully as possible until Zane celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday. Reflection persuaded him that emotional needs loomed. Until eighteen-year-old David Hirschberg was recommended to him for tutoring, the matter’s resolution had failed to appear.

David’s fair countenance, innocent sincerity, and cooperative spirit touched his tutor’s unsounded heartstrings. Reminded him distantly of amenable David Reynolds back home.

Zane worked at making himself friendly and accessible especially as David’s small waist and cantaloupe buns came into view stretching his neatly pleated trousers during breaks in their sessions. A difficult moment in the boy’s understanding came as they were side by side. He dropped his head on Zane’s shoulder, was gentled, then hugged.

“Oh, I’m getting some sympathy”

“You can have as much as you want.”

Catalytic moment!

More handsy thereafter, Zane awaited further inspiration.

One late afternoon when the weather was bad, David’s old, used car wouldn’t start.

“You can stay over. We’ll make do. Call the service station for a tow in the morning.”

David phoned his parents.

He and Zane went to Zane’s bed in their jockeys.

“How about some more sympathy?”

It did not matter who said it, for David found out how a man’s fingers could trace his chest and stomach, what a man’s lips could do to his own virginal mouth, the effect of seven inches of firm flesh against his five – impressive despite two layers of cotton.

Breathless, he became afraid.

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to do this. I’m Catholic.”

Zane rose up, rubbed cock to prick, lowered himself, ground into David, growled, “I’m your angel of mercy, boy, here to teach you secrets of God’s love they don’t reveal at church. You’re guilty of the sin of onanism, I know. That’s selfish pleasure – with your hand – right?

Twitching under pressure groin to groin and from being exposed as a practitioner of something not spoken of at home, young David turned his face aside in shame. Exposed then was his inviting, milky fresh neck – to which Zane applied his lips.

“Hold me close. I won’t bite like Dracula, but I am going to give you something to remember about this occasion.”

Hickeys. Six, in a semi-circle below the Adam’s apple. Purple by the morrow, they either would be seen or hidden under a turtleneck sweater.

“Your church teaches you that love is good, doesn’t it? Love between two people? Admit it.”

“Yes – a man and a woman.”

“So they say. When you’re at mass, don’t your priests have acolytes?”

“Uh-huh.”

Zane’s erection pushed into David’s marble-size balls, as if to urge the boy’s legs into separating.

“You know any of the acolytes?”

“No. They’re like twelve years old.”

“What do you think they wear under those robes and surplices?”

No response. David was thinking.

“Priests and acolytes dress apart from mothers, did you know? They train the boys to imitate them by stripping before being invested. ‘The pure state of Adam,’ they tell the boys – all the more intimate, the more loving. Is it any wonder how they help their acolytes through puberty? It’s natural, sanctioned by churchly tradition.”

“You want to love me?”

“David, you want to be loved but you’re afraid. Your privates – wet and throbby – are speaking desire. Let me help you, okay?”

No exchange of words accompanied jockey removal. Nor David’s being turned for Zane’s delectation of his backside – the classic face-down position.

Eyes followed the flow – a visual buffet – from back of head down neck to rise of shoulders and indent of waist, up flare of buttocks no Ganymede ever bested and down gentle curve of upper legs, dip behind knees to swell of calves, turn of ankles…

Zeus-tempting pulchritude, his for the taking.

Zane reached to stroke alluring prominences. “My dear David, your beauty begs to be loved, grown man to young man on the cusp. Lie still. Trust my touch to the most sensitive spot on your body, the spot you think is nasty – but that is only because you know only one, unclean use.”

He found the threshold for love’s knock. It was locked. With patience and determination – and Vaseline – his index finger tried, tried, tried, and tried before the muscle weakened and widened to let a knuckle in. Zane occupied his other hand by massaging the virgin’s nape. Knuckle two reached through and was withdrawn to a gasp.

“Shhhh…”

Returned and rotated, the finger’s two joints caressed David’s inner ridges. Speculation about how those would feel to the head of his cock added urgency. Too soon, though. A second finger had to be accepted and its presence tolerated. There was protest to silence with another, “Shhhh, and “We are getting you ready, David, ready for the best newness your life ever had.” Time for relaxation was Zane’s to parcel out before resuming gentle twists and edgings toward that button that would cause a riot of ejaculation.

As the fit came on, David reached for his randy, small sex, its balls tight against his body, and, confused as he convulsed on the fingers in his ass, collected manually what he could in astonishment.

Zane rammed in deeply and drew the boy’s head into a kiss of high passion.

“It hurts. It hurts.”

“Only at first. Stop squeezing. This is important. Relax into the feeling of being rubbed inside. Yes, David, relax. These moments afterwards will mean so much to you when you let me make true love to you. Manly love, David. Your namesake in the scriptures, David, cured Saul’s madness not with any harp – that’s a cover-up – with his wondrous ass. He did, you know. There are scriptures no priest ever told you about.”

A third finger slid stealthily into David as Zane continued his blasphemous account, “Jesus was a big-dicked Jew who kept a harem of a dozen young men in his thrall. They followed him on his travels of conversion to radical thought about love and how men should share it widely. He loved Thomas most, and most often because Thomas, of disposition as sweet as yours, craved the nurture of Jesus’ cock pinning him to wherever and on whatever they slept.”

His mind set on David’s sexual salvation then and there, Zane withdrew his fingers, used their coating on himself and, with the grip of a bird of prey on David’s shoulders, husbanded his burgeoned bigness into the boy’s core.

A humble beginning to a love affair, a first for both, that led to their living together, splendidly happy for three years. They shared a love of art. And loving sex. By clever edging, Zane’s fucks increased in time from ten to forty minutes – before David responded, as habituated, to the directive, “I’m going to cum; you, too.”

Zane screwed David every night that neither was sick. Occasional colds or touches of flu interrupted. Two more years were “not bad,” by Zane’s later judgment, but the last two saw them drift apart. David wanted to make up for the youthful fun times with others his age denied him by his liaison with grown Zane.

He went to bars, got picked up, had flings, and made two big mistakes. He chose to close the open-communication agreement which was part of their word to each other about living together; he declined to provide his well-accustomed bottom when a simple, if prolonged fuck would have kept Zane content.

One day, Zane said, “David, for some while, you’ve been sending up signals that you don’t want to live with me any longer. So, let’s set a deadline for your departure, say, in thirty days.”

* * * *

Discontented, Zane found new employment a thousand miles away on the East Coast. He sold his small house, moved across country, made a lonely home for himself, met new people, pleasured himself in solitude, visited the local museums but, fearful of social disease on the spread, sought no intimacies with those in the gay life-whirl of his area’s tourist spots.

Instead, he found refuge in imagination fed by porn. Pulp novels sold through the mail by authors Carl Corley, John Dexter, Peter Pepper, John Renzi, Jess Stearn, and Michael Ward helped to work out Zane’s knotted seminal vesicles but less than those by John Preston and Larry Townsend. Rough and forced sex, bondage, discipline, sado-masochism – some of the crudest by history’s prolific Anonymous – roiled his fancy. Victims with small endowments invited humiliation and subjugation. The writings confirmed for Zane that most twinks deserved it and could be convinced that they wanted abusive sex.

New friends need not know what he bought by mail.

* * * *

Video tapes proved to be windows for second-hand voyeurism, their up-close-and-personal views of Rick Donovan, Chad Hunt, Aiden Shaw, Lon Flexx, and Chad Douglas having as bottoms willingly compliant co-stars. Kurt Marshall, Brent Corrigan, Joey Stefano, Kip Noll, Leo Ford, and Kevin Williams always set Zane’s flights of imagination soaring along with splashes of cum.

* * * *

Story sites on-line lured, too. Zane could select by category. Well-meant trash, smelly verbal garbage doomed many amateurish efforts to write. As little as a single page with only pedestrian prose, and off Zane’s screen it went. Good authors did almost as much for his libido’s satisfaction as videos. Zane read and relished certain stories by Bob Archman, Jamie Anderson, Arthur Carkeek, Axel Darke, David Buffet, Josh Terrence, Ivor Sukwell – all of whom certainly knew how bottoms should be handled, even manhandled. When they cropped up, hints of romance enhanced the sex.

Mmmm.

Zane stumbled on a writer of phenomenal verbal virtuosity, a mysterious, clearly experienced fellow who signed himself ‘Ganymede.’ How strange it seemed that pre-pubescence would be anyone’s focus. The difference between pedophilia and pederasty finally registered as viable perspectives, along with awareness of the psychosexual circumstances that draw men to little boys. It was possible to disregard the author’s predilections of pronounced age differences and to savor his use of language and its refinements.

Language of adoration and tapped emotions, of seduction (even incestual), of success in penetrations of puckers no matter how small, of breaths drawn short and lungs refilled between gasps of fulfillment above and below to lift sexual fantasies to imaginings undreamed of by prurient minds. Weaver of erotic fantasy. Master of psychology of sex between men and boys. Residing on his aquatic Mt Olympus, muse and magic storyteller to mere mortals. Ganymede’s refinements caused Zane’s mind to boggle.

An author of stories in bountiful quantity (although quite variable in thermostatic heights), F.E. Cooper, returned Zane’s e-mails. Upon sufficient flattery, the man waxed volubly about his erotic writing.

“I write about what I know and use that in made-up situations for characters I originate. My stories, unlike Ganymede’s, which I have long admired, seldom flaunt convention or touch upon controversial issues. When thirty or more years of experience are similarly behind me as a writer, I may approach Ganymede’s beauty of expression.”

He joked about being dead before then.

Zane visited upon Cooper his ideas for hot stories.

“If you want to read those stories, then write them,” came the response. “I and others doubtless will want to read them, provided they don’t appear unless and until well proofread. You wouldn’t want to seem illiterate, would you?

“The more real you want your events to be for the reader, the more important it is not to distract by misspellings or subject-verb disagreements. While I catch most of those, writers I revere continue to upbraid me for over-long sentences. Try, they nag, for concision of statement. I pass that along in case it helps your initial efforts. So, get to them.”

* * * *

Misery. Ages passed. No boy ass for the man, little success with figuring out how to write an inviting first sentence. Middle-age limbo had Zane stuck. Tried to distract his thoughts by picking up his old art materials and trying his hand at painting.

Crap. Sex thoughts were better.

Erections had to be coaxed via fantasies. Cooper had said he wrote what he knew, that Zane should, too. The man knew his vice’s fantasies. He would write those.

Zane applied himself to writing of the butts he dreamed to penetrate and of situations which would let him – in his personal fashion – come close to perpetrating crimes. Boy as toys to be played with, perhaps broken. Violence crept into his thinking. Torture chambers came to his darkened mind. Racks, whips, crosses, punishment benches, ball presses, fucking machines for his mind’s use in meting out Zanian justice. Convolutions of contrived story lines complicated, then compromised comprehensibility.

Found that out when old friend Charlie Kirkland dropped by after a considerable interval. Asked, “What have you been up to?”

Was Charlie appalled by the printed-out evidence of Zane’s labors? No, horrified.

Disgusted. The more he glanced through pages so lurid they made no sense to him, he swallowed hard. The opening lines of one in particular infuriated him:

“Dad, what’s this?” A black rubber object was held out.

“Your Mom’s hood. For when we made love.”

“There’s no openings except for, I guess, her mouth.”

“That’s right son. She was small. About your size, the age you are now.”

“Can I try it on – and you show me some love?”

“Sure, baby. I’m really horny.”

He could puke. Hated porn anyway. Neither read it nor watched it. Nothing about porn created a tumult in Charlie Kirkland’s testicles. Much preferred the real thing: a street kid to haul around with him to his worksites for a few days, to feed then suck and fuck at night. Even bought a white bearskin rug to cushion floor fun.

A gamut of thoughts later, Charlie realized Zane had flipped out. Lost touch with reality.

While neither psychologist nor medical practitioner of any sort, Charlie figured Zane needed to get out in the real world. Cooped too long, his emotions were cramped like toes in a badly fitted shoe, ingrown. But first, he had to react to Zane’s production.

He brandished the print-outs, “What are you going to do with these?”

“Why, post them to some sex story sites where I read a lot. Nifty, convenient.”

“Tell you what,” Charlie said, “ride with me over to Fort Lauderdale. There’s a pick-up spot for day laborers. I need one or two guys for tomorrow. Maybe we can scout up something for you. There’re all kinds looking for work these days.”

The ride was a what-the-hell lark for Zane.

First stop netted no one attractive – just some alkies who would likely faint working in Florida’s sun. Second stop, not much better. His impatience was growing.

“Bummer,” said Charlie. “Let’s check over by the beach.”

“Look there,” Zane pointed to a couple of scruffy young men in the scant shade of a palm.

Driving by for a gander then circling the clock, Charlie pulled up, rolled down his window, “You boys need a ride?”

“Fuck no, we need a job.” The one who spoke looked worldly wise in the sexist possible way. Smaller, seemingly shyer, his companion merely looked up with resignation, Zane thought.

“We’re going to get something to eat. Want to join us? Climb in the back.”

With orders from a drive-by, they went to a small park with picnic tables where the boys’ dirty appearance would raise no eyebrows.

“This here’s Johnny Wilkinson ’n’ I’m Rick Conroy,” the tough one spoke through a mouthful of cheeseburger. ‘Y’can call me Ricky.” As if afraid to speak, Johnny said, “I’m Johnny.”

Caginess marked the release of other information. Charlie, who had eyes for little Johnny, carried on about landscape work and ate a bowl of chili. Zane’s eyes speculated that beneath his soiled surface, Ricky might be – and have – what it took to raise his ramrod again. He sipped lemonade and crunched a few potato chips, saying little himself. Insecurities bothered him.

“Tell you what…” – Charlie oversaw all their trash being gathered for deposit in the proper receptacle – “…you fellows could use some cleaning up and a good rest. Want to go with us for the night, and we’ll see what develops in the morning?”

The runaways figured Charlie and Zane were a couple. Wrong. Two different addresses meant separation, if only for the night. But no other offer had come their way, so it was go-with-the-flow.

* * * *

Well-showered, the Wilkinson boy possessed face and body so winsome Charlie could not believe his luck. “I give good massages. Ever had one?”

Johnny had not. Charlie’s magic hands, slick with an aromatic oil, worked the boy to the point of accepting a finger in the back, then a second – no virgin he – and a hand kneading his balls and cock.

Charlie may not have cut as striking a figure as Rev. Abraham Falconer back home nor possessed his suave way with words, but he would not be nearly as physically challenging. Johnny found Charlie’s erection to verify. Average. A relief. More his shrink’s size. Dr. Grigorios Apollyon had helped him through the trauma caused by his distraught mother when she found out what Falconer was doing to her fourteen-year-old.

(Meet the devious Rev. Falconer in this story. )

Johnny’s thoughts did not need to extend further to his other relationship, the one with Sheriff Rick. That one had been taken over by Ricky anyway. Without proverbial further ado, Johnny’s tender arms opened automatically to his host.

Across town, Zane’s apathy daunted Ricky Conroy not one bit. The way he gave head could harden an octopus’ tentacles. Although Zane’s member was no match for that of his attacker’s mentor, Sheriff Rick Jackson, it touched the back of Ricky’s well-tempered throat and eventually responded to its post-uvulan ministrations.

The boy’s strokes of Zane’s balls from his perineum forward did more than spark the man’s sex drive toward normalcy. Ricky knew his way around male genitalia. Months in a reformatory had perfected relaxation of muscle groups oral and anal. Sheriff Rick had toned them up for peak performance. Ricky had loved him but the Sheriff, who tried to reciprocate, could not return that love. Admitted he wanted no roommate with “googly eyes.”

They parted.

Ricky hit the road again, this time with the Wilkinson kid, a similar runaway.

Before Zane might over-respond to the best blow-job of his life, Ricky pulled off and sat on what he had lubricated so thoroughly. Right down on it. Flung himself back, pulling Zane over him, crying, “Fuck me man. Fuck me like there’ll be no tomorrow. Give it to me!”

Momentary heat called for clichés.

He reached for the man’s head eager to kiss. And coordinated rectal squeezes of Zane’s tubularly ovoid cock each time it drew back. The dairy effect – as if the organ were a huge udder being milked – had Zane rutting with energy more feral than in years. Zane’s stride and something about the lack of friction in his anus told Ricky the man lacked full erection. What to do?

Play with his ass.

The wanton boy’s touches from the right and left there sent tingles. Insistence of touches – even tugging apart a sphincter untouched by others in decades – catapulted Zane into seeding Ricky Conroy with all he had.

He loved being hammered. Wanted more. “Stay in me, old man. I need some more action.”

Wrapped in pulsing rectal tissue and cradled in wet warmth of his creation, Zane, head spinning from the moments before, felt supreme contentment. What was the boy asking?

Opening eyes looked into desire-wide eyes.

“You got a dildo?”

The boy – Ricky, was it? – wanted a dildo? Zane opened the nearest bedside drawer and pulled out a large one. Handed it over. Watched from his position above as Ricky – yes, he remembered it now – spat a wad on the end, smeared it around, spat again then – WHAT? – put it behind and began nudging Zane’s sensitized anus with its slick tip.

In went the object. Smoothly.

Zane’s eyes bugged at the dual sensation: Ricky pulsed his own ass on what it held while coursing the dildo in and back, roiling the man’s prostate. What had begun to shrink thickened and lengthened and commenced to fuck. This time, in motion as slow as a sports event replay.

Ricky was going to complain – that is, until the logic of the dick’s travel from tip of its head’s flare to the hairy cushion of Zane’s pubes began to settle and lull him into a sense of security in the old man’s embrace. The dildo did for Zane what Zane was doing for Ricky, fucking wonderfully.

Relaxation of all interior muscles soothed further. The sheriff-toughened passage became tenderized by gentle persuasion. On and on for many minutes of bliss. Then, without conscious will, the pace picked up. Libidos mustered glandular output. The two came in gasps. Collapsed.

Compatibility of Johnny with Charlie and of Ricky with Zane you might think would result in long-term residency. True, for a few weeks, it did. Accommodations were fine. The men, accommodating. Both butts, too. Meals for four and sports events on television played well as expressions of companionable friendship. Idyllic really, except for the size of cock both boys longed to ream them – Sheriff Rick Jackson’s.

Honest admissions netted a pair of bus tickets, some spending money, and friendly farewells from Charlie and Zane. They missed their creamy young fuck mates and reverted to living alone, Charlie continuously on the lookout. Zane smarted under the critique that his anatomy’s pride and its use lacked what a rangy teen required. Turned resentful. Insulated himself against future emotional disturbances. Reverted to art – reading about it.

The real, late-life Zane was back.

(For the incandescent backstory of Johnny & Ricky, read this story)

* * * *

Calendar pages came and went by the dozen.

One day, out of the electronic ether, an e-mail arrived from F.E. Cooper asking whether Zane were writing, how he was, what he was doing. The text conveyed the information that Cooper was clearing his computer of thousands of old e-mails, found their correspondence, had been reminded of Zane’s intent, was curious whether he still read Ganymede’s frolicsome tales of men with boys, boldly asked whether he ever had ventured into ‘the tender trade,’ and – overall – made such an impudent nuisance of himself that the older guy, grumbling as he did so, responded.

There followed a correspondence in which Zane – bit-by-byte, it was joked – found himself conned into revealing suppressed memories that reached back to his earliest years.

“This is a trove,” Cooper asserted. “Let’s cobble them together for a posting – in order that curious readers may enjoy and, in other ways, possibly benefit from.”

Feeling good about their long-wrought result, they crossed fingers that others might find favor.

Any chance?

If you desire an anally-erotic adventure centering on a recent high school graduate of genius-level talent in and out of the not-so-innocent art world, it & its 5-star reviews can be found here on Amazon US and on Amazon UK.